Went to bed last night and woke up this morning thinking about the logic of religious sacrifice. This is because I was reading about the subject in Tom Holland's (so far) outstanding Dominion: How the Christian Revolution Remade the World. In it, he begins with an informal survey of pre-Christian religious practices revolving around human and animal sacrifice.
Which I do not understand, hence the nocturnal puzzlement. But maybe I'm the oddball, since this was a ubiquitous practice in virtually all ancient cultures. If something is that widespread and universal, it seems almost instinctive. So, am I missing the sacrifice gene?
Of course, one of the points of the book is that non- and even anti-Christians in the west are so deeply influenced by Christianity that they might as well call themselves Christian. Holland himself turned away from the faith as a teen, and afterwards developed a passion for the history of ancient civilizations.
But his immersion in antiquity led to the realization that these people were Not Like Us, and they were Not Like Us because they were not Christian: "The more years I spent immersed in the study of classical antiquity, so the more alien I increasingly found it." Their barbaric practices "were nothing I recognized as my own."
It was not just the extremes of callousness that unsettled me, but the complete lack of any sense that the poor or the weak might have the slightest intrinsic value.... That my belief in God had faded over the course of my teenage years did not mean that I had ceased to be Christian.
One might say he was no longer a believing Christian, only a practicing one. Or, his belief had become implicit and taken for granted: "Assumptions I had grown up with" were very much a a consequence of our Christian past. But
So profound has been the impact of Christianity on the development of Western civilisation that it has come to be hidden from view.
It reminds me of the informal law that successful precautions are regarded as unnecessary, since the problems they solve are no longer seen. For example, if law enforcement is successful, it may prompt one to think it's a good idea to defund the police. Which aggravates the problems that had been solved or at least mitigated by robust law enforcement.
Among other things, Christianity is a pretty explicit denunciation of human sacrifice. But at the same time, the Crucifixion was a sacrifice, only intended to be the ultimate and therefore final one. It finally paid our deus in the coin of infinitude and eternity.
The problem is that this final abolition of sacrifice is still located within the economy of sacrifice: one sacrifice to end all others, but nevertheless reenacted in the liturgy, one purpose of which is, in the words of Paul, to offer our bodies "as a living sacrifice." This sacrifice is "holy and pleasing to God," and is our "true and proper worship."
Which brings us back to the principle of sacrifice and my puzzlement over it.
In thinking it through, what is the deeper structure of sacrifice? What are its implicit assumptions? Well, lately we've been talking about a principle of Openness, and the very possibility of sacrifice assumes an open relationship between the human and the divine.
In the pre-Christian understanding, the sacrifice was very much a quid pro quo -- I'll scratch your back and you scratch mine.
However, the pre-Christian gods are nothing like the Christian God of love, so it was more a matter of manipulation or bribery, as if to say "I'll scratch your back so please don't break mine":
While offerings certainly never guaranteed their favour, failure to make sacrifice was bound to provoke the gods' rage.
Better to not take any risks and just pay the invisible mafia its protection money. But even then there were doubts: "with so many different ways of paying the gods what was owed them, and with so many different gods to honour, there was always a nagging anxiety that some might be overlooked."
This led to the need to repeat the practice at regular intervals. Like a psychological compulsion it would dissipate the anxiety for awhile, only for the anxiety to return, necessitating another sacrifice.
This is pretty much René Girard's whole theory, that "it is humankind, not God, who has need for various forms of atoning violence." Thus, "Scapegoating serves as a psychological relief for a group of people," whereby
one person is singled out as the cause of the trouble and is expelled or killed by the group.... Social order is restored as people are contented that they have solved the cause of their problems by removing the scapegoated individual, and the cycle begins again....
The difference between the scapegoating of Jesus and others, Girard believes, is that in the resurrection from the dead, he is shown to be an innocent victim; humanity is thus made aware of its violent tendencies and the cycle is broken.
Which is more anthropological than theological; or, seems to reduce theology to anthropology.
On a more theological level, what is going on here? Well, let's say there was some sort of "fall" that resulted in a rupture of the open system between man and God. Sacrifice is, of course, an attempt to heal the rupture -- literally an effort to restore at-onement with God. Does it work? Apparently, but only for awhile.
Part of the problem is that our petty sacrifices are finite, while God is infinite. Man cannot offer an infinite sacrifice, but what if....
Yes, what if God himself is the sacrifice offered of and to himself? Then you have an infinite sacrifice, so no further sacrifice is necessary.
More controversially, another way of looking at it is that the at-onement works both ways. I mean, suppose we are angry with God, not necessarily consciously but unconsciously -- as one might be toward one's parents. In the unconscious mind, one thing can be its opposite, so our atonement to God for our sins can simultaneously be God's atonement to us for his (in a manner of speaking).
To the bitter cry, My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?, God's answer might be that he too is forsaken, so God himself makes amends via the sacrifice of his only begotten. In an article touching on this touchy subject, the psychoanalyst James Groststein suggests that
theologically and psychologically, mankind needs to sacrifice to his God(s) and that God correspondingly needs to sacrifice to his worshippers.
Now that is a wild idea, but it just might work: "the common denominator, the act of sacrifice, constitutes a sacred covenant that binds man to God and God to man thereafter." All is forgiven, God to man and man to God. The breach is resolved, and we can finally bury the hatchet of sacrifice.
What say you, Gemini?
You've articulated a complex and fascinating exploration of sacrifice, touching on anthropological, theological, and even psychoanalytic perspectives. Let's break down some of the key points and explore them further:
The Puzzle of Sacrifice: You're not alone in finding the concept of sacrifice puzzling. While it was ubiquitous in ancient cultures, its logic can seem alien to modern minds.
Christianity and the "Final" Sacrifice: Christianity, while denouncing human sacrifice, centers on the ultimate sacrifice of Jesus. This is a crucial shift. The crucifixion is understood as the once-for-all atonement for sin, rendering further sacrifices unnecessary. However, as you point out, the Eucharist and the Pauline call to offer our bodies as a "living sacrifice" suggest that the concept of sacrifice, albeit transformed, persists within Christianity. It's no longer about appeasing a wrathful god with external offerings, but about internal transformation and aligning oneself with God's will.
The Deeper Structure of Sacrifice: You've identified the core issue: what is the logic of sacrifice? You rightly point out the pre-Christian quid pro quo mentality, a transactional approach to the gods. This does seem more akin to bribery or manipulation than genuine relationship. The anxiety surrounding potentially overlooking a deity underscores this transactional nature.
Girard's Scapegoat Theory: Girard's theory provides a compelling anthropological explanation. It suggests that sacrifice is rooted in the human need to manage social tensions. The scapegoat mechanism allows a community to purge its collective guilt and restore order by displacing it onto a single victim. While insightful, this theory, as you mention, can feel reductive, potentially reducing theology to mere anthropology. It focuses on the human need for sacrifice, less so on the divine.
Theological Perspectives: You've touched on some crucial theological points. The idea of a "rupture" between humanity and God, and sacrifice as an attempt to heal that rupture, is central to many religious traditions. The concept of God sacrificing himself is indeed radical. It shifts the focus from humanity's attempt to appease God to God's own act of self-giving. This is a fundamental difference between Christianity and many other ancient religions.
God's "Sacrifice" to Humanity: The idea that God also "sacrifices" to humanity, as suggested by Groststein, is a provocative one. It acknowledges the potential for human anger or alienation from God. The crucifixion, in this view, could be seen as God's way of acknowledging and addressing that alienation, offering reconciliation from the divine side as well. This notion of mutual atonement, a "sacred covenant" binding God and humanity, offers a more reciprocal and less one-sided understanding of the relationship.
7 comments:
"The more years I spent immersed in the study of classical antiquity, so the more alien I increasingly found it."
Funny, I often feel that way about the world - and how other people, particularly other families - interact in general.
Good one today Bob. As an Episcopalian, (catholic light) I frequently stumble in the liturgy at communion with all of the body and blood business.
"Truly, truly, I say to you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of man and drink his blood, you have no life in you; he who eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up at the last day. For my flesh is food indeed, and my blood is drink indeed. He who eats my flesh and drinks my blood abides in me, and I in him. (John 6:53–56)"
It conjures up images of Aztec priests atop a pyramid, cutting out hearts and the blood streaming down the steps. Reminds me of the old Gary Jennings book, Aztec, which detailed these practices and the cultural/religious/political rationales. I often wonder what young kids sitting with parents in the pews make of this. Does the Dad say, "It's complicated son, but don't worry about it."? Probably many if not most of the adults sitting there mouthing these words are similarly clueless.
Your post today offers some clarity on this ritual and the symbolic significance of it all. It would make a good Sunday sermon.
I've often had these discussions with my daughter. Part of the question, for Catholics at least (I forget the official Episcopal stance, though it must be similar or there'd be no lateral movement of Priests from Episcopal to Catholic), is whether one believes in the Real Presence or whether it is just taken as symbolic.
Given the number of Eucharistic miracles over the centuries where the host becomes flesh or the wine becomes blood, I believe and teach my children that the Body and Blood is very real, but that Christ has mercy on us by making it bread and wine. The purpose of this is to become literally one flesh with Him, not just symbolically but ultimately in truth, so it matters, but it is not intended as an incitement to cannibalism.
Just my perception, for whatever that's worth.
I'd be Catholic except for the initiation ordeal and the Pope. Ratzinger was great, but the rest are eh. You're referring to "transubstantiation" I think. Anglican/ Episcoplians have a problem with that for some reason. Can't remember why. British have lost their sense of mystery after C.S Lewis and Chesterton died. Also, Malcolm Muggeridge. Remember him?
Hello Steve. Greetings fellow Episcopalian! In addition to my Episcopalian confirmation, I also had extensive attendance of Catholic mass as spectator.
Catholic doctrine hold that the host and the wine literally do transform into the tissue and blood of Jesus, but this does not happen in the host dish or the chalice.
The timing indicates the conversion of the host and blood occurs within the esophagus of the parishioner just before landing in the stomach.
Theoretically if you immediately aspirated the parishioner's stomach contents you would find human muscle or connective tissue, and hemolyzed human red blood cells.
Now I'm not sure if I have that right, but that's how I pieced it together. It may have been tested, but I have not seen the literature.
At the Episcopalian church I go to, it has never been explicitly said that way, and I think it is more symbolic. Of course you want Jesus in your body; who wouldn't? Communion makes perfect sense. When it comes to Jesus more is always better.
There's two tarnished cents worth, cast into a hat by the ancient knurled fist of the Trench-meister.
Go in peace.
Aha! So it has been proven! The communion wine I take always gives me a slight buzz, which is worrisome. Blood would not give the characteristic alcoholic zing. So...what to say? I have been offered RCIA and I wonder if I need to do that...
I recall Malcom rejected Anglicism in favor of Catholicism, perhaps for the very reasons we have touch upon in these comments. The "initiation ordeal" is some classroom time and a dunk in a the deep baptismal, not too onerous. I may do it.
Meanwhile watching from less than two cubits away, Jesus regards me with calm eyes, as if to say, "believe in me. Whether you take in my substance as a host wafer and wine, meat and blood, or not at all, I will still love you and be your fortress."
Jesus take the wheel.
Trench.
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